Entre la vie

I like myself.

Do you know how rare it is to say that—to breathe it into the air, as if it were a fragile spell, one that could scatter at the slightest doubt? To whisper it in the quiet of an empty room, where the silence presses close, unflinching, and every shadow on the wall feels like a version of me, waiting to see if I mean it?

I like myself. And saying it feels like tossing a fragile paper boat into a vast ocean, hoping it floats.

But here’s the thing—it’s not just about me.

I like myself because each person I’ve crossed paths with has left a fragment of themselves in me, like shards of colored glass pressed into wet cement. I walk around carrying constellations of people inside me—tiny galaxies tucked behind my ribs, under my tongue, in the folds of my hands.

There’s a corner of my heart that smells like Delirium Tremens and the quiet laughter of someone who once stayed up all night with me, talking about nothing and everything. My fingertips hum with the warmth of hands I’ve held, and my eyes carry the echoes of sunsets shared in comfortable silence.

There was the friend who came by with a bag of groceries, unpacking vegetables I didn’t know what to do with, standing beside me as I learned to cook. Now, every meal I make feels like a conversation with them, the smell of cumin and warmth filling the kitchen like an old, familiar song.

There was the hand that once took my glasses from me, showing me how to clean the lenses just so, murmuring, “You’ll see the world differently now.” And I do. Not just through clearer glass but with clearer eyes, noticing beauty in places I’d once overlooked.

There was someone who nudged a bass guitar into my hands, grinning as they said, “This is how you’ll find your rhythm.” And now, my fingers pluck at strings that hum not just with music but with the memory of that moment—when someone believed in me before I believed in myself.

I am not just one person. I am a collection of midnight conversations, fleeting glances, and the way someone’s voice sounds just after they wake up. I am the soft hum of a song someone once sang under their breath, thinking no one was listening. I am the quiet courage of someone who stood next to me when I couldn’t stand on my own.

And when I say, “I like myself,” I am saying I like them. I like the parts of me that belong to others—the borrowed courage, the inherited humor, the wisdom passed down in half-finished sentences and knowing looks.

I like myself because, somehow, I have become a home. A creaky but warm house where all these pieces live together, mismatched furniture and sunlit windows, carrying the scent of old books and freshly brewed coffee.

And if I close my eyes, I can hear them—the people I’ve loved, the people I’ve lost, the people I barely knew but who still left fingerprints on me. They’re all here, whispering stories into the rafters, singing softly from the attic, leaving little notes in the kitchen drawers.

I like myself because I am theirs as much as I am mine. Because every scar, every smile, every sharp edge has a story attached to it, a person behind it, a moment crystallized in amber.

So when I say, “I like myself,” it’s not just a solitary confession. It’s an echo, a ripple, a love letter to every soul who has ever touched mine.

And if you’re reading this—if you see yourself in these words—know that you are here too. In the walls, in the windows, in the way the light falls on the floorboards of my heart.

I like myself. Because I like you. Because, in some strange and beautiful way, we’ve built each other. And isn’t it wonderful to be so full of others that I have finally become whole?

-Vie (17.Jan.2025, Missing my friends a little too much)